


Four Weddings and a Wildling

by AsbestosMouth



Series: Mayflower [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brienne is dense, But the Tormund/Brienne one, F/M, It's the 'they have to share a bed' trope, M/M, Slight spin off is slight, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tormund is a hipster, Tropes, Try Hard Universe, Tumblr Prompt, Weddings galore!, explain the beard otherwise, rugby bros!, trouser legs of time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 09:48:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8528419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsbestosMouth/pseuds/AsbestosMouth
Summary: Renly and Loras are getting married at Highgarden, and everyone’s along for the ride. Aww! Life might not be a romantic comedy for Brienne, though, until it actually is. That might have something to do with a missing single room and an enormous ginger idiot who seems to be doing his best to drive our heroine absolutely mad. 
 
  Prompt fill for @comamdelat who asked: Would you be interested in the bed sharing trope for a prompt? Like when hotel loses Brienne’s reservation and she has to share with Tormund.





	

**Author's Note:**

> _A few notes - it was also requested by another, who wanted some of the rugby bro-love in this, so this is almost a spin-off of _Try Hard_ but without the Jaime/Brienne. Brienne is the rugby coach and team captain. Same universe, but the other outcome. Trouser Legs of Time, people. _

* * *

 

 

Yet another wedding.

 

Brienne, despite all appearances, has a soft spot for romantic comedies. She wraps herself in a fleecy blanket, lights candles, takes half a pint of ice cream (vanilla, usually the skinny version, though sometimes she indulges with frozen strawberry yoghurt and a really big spoon) and a box of tissues, and spends the two hours a week she allows herself to be rather less than Brienne-like quietly sniffling along to various mid ‘90s soundtracks. _Miss Congeniality_ is obviously a favourite, even with the ‘ugly girl gets hot’ trope that dominates films of the period. _Ten Things I Hate About You_ , and yes, she had the hugest crush on Heath Ledger, and even more when she saw _A Knight’s Tale_ (but not as much as she had on Paul Bettany, but since he’s ginger she never mentions it because otherwise _he_ might be encouraged). Never ask Brienne about period accuracy in any movies; she will bore you to tears regarding anachronism in medieval weaponry and armour. Especially _Braveheart_. Never talk of that abomination.

 

However, there is one that stands tall, above all the others.

 

_Four Weddings and a Funeral_.

 

Which pretty much sums up her previous six months, apart from the funeral. Luckily no one has died yet, and considering in the film it’s the amusing older gay man who shuffles off the mortal coil, she’s slightly worried about Varys.

 

This wedding is number four, and the one that she’s looked forward to most. Since it involves a Tyrell and a Baratheon, it is dubbed by certain media outlets as _The Wedding of the Century_ \-  unlike the last Tyrell wedding, obviously, because at least Margaery had the sense to elope with Bronn and eschew all the usual fuss. That means, of course, that Olenna’s desperation for social splendour has smashed into Loras and Renly’s nuptials like some sort of interstellar spacecraft into a random small planetoid.

 

It is all tasteful, and beautiful, and Highgarden looks glorious in full summer bloom, but all rather stage managed and polished for Brienne’s tastes. If she ever weds - and she won’t, she knows that - her marriage will be smaller, and slightly more _Persuasion_ esque. Small, and country sept-ish, with frolicking children, and possibly Brienne in breeches. Sometimes she thinks about something made of lace, but high throated and long sleeved, and quietly mocks her stupidity.

 

Clegane parks the Land Rover in a space guaranteed to piss everyone else off since he just can’t be arsed with social niceties, slides from the seat, manages to remember enough manners to get Sansa’s door. They’re not dressed up yet, since they’ve come all the way from King’s Landing to the Reach on the morning of the ceremony, but since Highgarden is one of the classiest and poshest hotels in Westeros these days, they’ve bagged rooms. Expensive ones. That were incredibly difficult to get hold of, but Sansa did whatever she does and charmed Willas Tyrell - ex boyfriend, apparently - into letting them have the requisite amount.

 

One for Sansa and Sandor. One for Beric and that hobbit. One for Brienne. One for... _him_.

 

Tormund’s knee kept smacking into hers the entire way down. Considering most of them are over five foot ten (apart from Ramsay, who is short and bitter and angry in the way only a man who pretends he’s five foot eight can be) the jeep, despite the cavernous internal space, seemed rather squashed. Brienne ended up bickering with Giantsbane for most of the journey, to the point where Beric turned around and, in his headmasterly way, told them to behave, or they won’t be allowed any cake.

 

Since Brienne doesn’t eat cake - sugar, gluten, eggs probably from caged battery hens rather than free-range, and she believes in cruelty-free alternative healthy baking - it isn’t that much of a threat but Tormund made a sound like a dying whale and settled back to a) sulk and b) shoot Brienne those strange glances.

 

Tormund is insufferable. He’s tall, and ginger, and bearded, and uncouth, and...argh! He’s just Tormund, which is enough of a description for anyone. He plays rugby really well, though thankfully he doesn’t have to touch Brienne in the scrum these days. He drinks strange beer from beyond the Wall, and swears by Rayder distilled single malt whisky. Fine. Brienne admits that he’s dependable, and strong, and doesn’t take any nonsense. Funny, if you like filthy humour. He’s not ugly, but then he’s no Renly, or Jaime. He’s just there. A big lump who likes driving her absolutely mad with his grinning, and his looks, and his general existence.

 

“Shall we go and book in?” Sansa, all bright and excited, loves weddings even more than Brienne does. They always sit together, and while her friend adores the dresses, the hats, the flowers, the very girl-ness of it all, Brienne admires the spectacle, the romance, the honour behind the vows, the smart morning dress of the men. For Sansa, the occasion is all in the detail. For Brienne, it’s all about the atmosphere.

 

“Need to get me kilt on,” Tormund says, his teeth ridiculously white in his beard. He’s just ridiculous all over. Idiot.

 

“Tell me, Tor, that you’re wearing underwear with it?” Hefting his and Ramsay’s cases, Beric raises a pleading red eyebrow. “Please tell me you’re wearing pants, mate?”

 

“A true Wilding never wears anythin’ under his kilt.” Similar red eyebrows wriggle devilishly in reply.

 

Ugh. Scowling, Brienne goes to pick up her rucksack, only to find Tormund’s vast freckled hand already around the strap.

 

“I can carry it for you!”

 

“I can carry my own bag, thank you.”

 

A silent tug of war ensues before Ramsay, seething quietly because he hates weddings and had to miss his mixed martial arts class for this, snatches the rucksack from them all and storms off in his usual black cloud of perverted hatred.

 

* * *

 

“I can find the reservations for Clegane, Dondarrion, and Giantsbane, but I haven’t got one for Tarth.” Behind the ornate carved check in desk, the young woman wrings her hands. She looks overwrought, and over-tired, and every five minutes a random Tyrell relative comes to harangue her over some perceived slight. “I’m so sorry. I can’t find it. I’m so-”

 

“It’s alright.” Having worked retail and hospitality to get herself through university, Brienne hates watching people, who are desperately trying their best, fall apart because of the general public. Especially this poor receptionist, who looks about twelve, and knowing Olenna Tyrell, she’s probably illegally employing children. “We can sort something out.”

 

She’ll go in with Sansa, Tormund and Clegane can share. Solved.

 

The girl gives them all a huge-eyed and watery thankful gaze, before flinching as yet another Tyrell seems to materialise. He hands her something, pats her hand, tells her to go on a break and he’ll cover.

 

“We’re missing a fucking reservation.” Arms crossed across his massive chest, Clegane looks mutinous. “For Tarth.”

 

“We’ve got no one of that name on the system, I’m sorry. We’re fully booked.”

 

“But Willas said-”

 

The Tyrell rolls his eyes. “Willas is great, but Loras is running him ragged with this shitshow, so he’s probably malfunctioned for once - Seven, I swear he’s a robot half the time. I only got in yesterday from Qohor, and I’m trying to pick up the organisational slack while his fuses get changed or whatever. Margie’s somewhere, but she’s bridesmaid. Seriously, Wil’s done great, but without Oberyn around he’d have bloody exploded into a million little bits. Do you know how long it takes to grow enough roses of a certain colour? And then Loras decides no, he wants darker ones, on the morning of the bloody wedding. And we’ve not got-”

 

A grin, and quite a charming one at that. The man has a military air, and a very good posture. “Sorry. Garlan, by the way. The other Tyrell brother. Look, I’ll see what I can do.”

 

* * *

 

Garlan, despite being Loras’ big brother, can do nothing. They really are fully booked.

 

Sansa won’t share because, apparently, she can’t sleep without Sandor being by her side, and she did make the excellent point that Clegane and Tormund could never hope to fit in the same bed. No one apart from Beric dares go anywhere near Ramsay for obvious and sane reasons. There isn’t even a settee in Sansa’s room for Brienne to sleep on so, unwillingly and dragging her feet, she and Tormund end up in the same bedroom.

 

It’s very...Tyrell. Green and gold, and opulent, and Tormund whoops as he goes into the en suite bathroom and steals all the complementary soap.

 

“There are spare pillows in the wardrobe. We can build a wall between us so we don’t have to touch.”

 

“And what if you end up climbing the Wall and snuggling against me, eh?!” Another of those horrible, manic grins, another of those eyebrow wiggles. “What’ll we do then, fine lass?”

 

“Never speak of it again,” she hisses through gritted teeth. “Ever.”

 

Thankfully, given the status of the hotel, the bed is super kingsize and absolutely enormous.

 

“Did you know that Wildlings sleep with no clothes on?”

 

As if to punctuate that sentence, Tormund squirms from his red checked flannel shirt, leaving him only in his stupid jeans that fit too tightly in the thigh, and his Skechers.

 

_Hipster_ , screams Brienne’s brain, as she tries to ignore lots of pale muscled skin, and freckles and moles, and jagged abstract woad-blue tattoos in the Wildling style across his shoulder and pectoral muscle.

 

Tormund had his nipple inked. That’s hardcore, and she has to appreciate that. Not that she’s looking. No, she’s staring straight at the wall, her heart pounding. That has nothing to do with the big ginger idiot and everything to do with the horror of having to sleep in the same bed as him because someone buggered up the reservations. And yes, Brienne does understand why she can’t share with someone else, and perhaps even Ramsay would be less disagreeable to her, but why is it that she always draws the short straw?

 

* * *

 

It was lovely.

 

She eases off one of the high heels that she very rarely wears, but since she’s with Sandor, Beric, and Tormund, it isn’t too frightening. Six foot seven is exactly a foot taller than Ramsay, and he’s hated the fact from the moment Brienne joined everyone else in the foyer before the wedding.

 

Where they make tiny morning suits, she doesn’t know. Beric joked that Ramsay has to buy his clothes from the teenage section, and will presumably suffer for his words later on, come bedtime. Ugh. Considering the two of them have a quite disturbing love of BDSM, anything could happen to Beric and he’d absolutely love it. He says it’s something about dying so much that makes him appreciate pain and feeling it and still remaining alive, but Brienne just thinks, for a lovely man, and a therapist at that, he’s really rather screwed up.

 

Everyone else, apart from her and Sansa, are quite tipsy. Brienne prefers not to drink, incase she is needed for anything. Sensible Mum Friend is what others tend to call her, tease her with, and she doesn’t really care for that but they do need someone who is sober, just in case.

 

“You look nice. Striking!”

 

Tormund lurks, as much as a man with bright red hair, a massive beard, and a black kilt can. He’s holding a pint that looks like someone’s drained engine oil into a glass and made a head on it with shaving foam, and he’s unlaced his ghillie shirt at the neck. Even if she isn’t looking - and she’s not - tattooed skin and ginger chest hair burns obnoxiously.

 

“Can I do anything for you?” she asks, coldly.

 

Of course he grins, and Brienne throws a well-aimed beer mat at him. It bounces off Tormund’s impressive nose, and he just smiles wider.

 

“I do a mean foot rub, if you’re wanting one? Big, strong, well-built girl like you, on them skinny wee heels-”

 

“Stop it.”

 

“Stop what?” Innocently, though his face is anything but.

 

“Stop mocking me, Tormund. I’m sick of it.” And she is. She’s tired at his endless needling, his pretense at interest, his desperation to irk. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s yet another man over-the-top admiring her for what the youngsters call ‘the luls.’

 

“What you mean?”

 

“All of it.” Sighing, she unstraps her other shoe, flexing her toes, ignoring Tormund’s fascination with her blue-painted nails. Brienne’s entire outfit - dress that covers her from neck to mid thigh, long sleeved but scooped low at the back to the base of her spine, those wicked sharp heels - is the same sapphire as her eyes. She likes the colour as it reminds her of home.

 

“Still got no clue?”

 

“Oh, for-! You know exactly what I mean. All these remarks. All that ‘flirting,’” and here she does what she promised never to do and punctuates with her fingers. “All the things you say to me, Tormund. The way you look at me, pretending to be this love-sick oaf. I know you’re just doing it to annoy me, wind me up. Whatever you’re trying to do, it’s not working. You can stop it now, because you won’t win. I know your game.”

 

He stands silent, all pale knees and long black laced up boots, and that ridiculous hipster beard, and the black kilt and shirt.

 

“You-?” Tormund stares at her, blankly, frowns, before growling deep in his throat. “Fine. If you-. Aye. Sure. It’s all me tryin’ to fuck with you, lass. Course it is! I’ll just piss off, right?”

 

He grins, the wattage considerably less than usual and his eyes lacking the normal vaguely manic spark, before disappearing with his pint to find his bros at the bar.

 

* * *

 

“Bri?”

 

“Oh, hey Sansa. How’re you feeling?” Her friend clutches an orange juice.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“...why wouldn’t I be?”

 

“Tormund said you seemed a bit upset.” She settles in a cloud of petticoats and tulle, perfume lemony and so very Sansa.

 

“Oh.” She laughs, a tommy gun rattle. “Oh, I think he’s just annoyed that I finally told him off for bothering me.”

 

Sansa leans in, carefully. She’s only just showing, but treats her stomach as if it is a fragile thing, not something that’s made to carry a child. “What do you mean?”

 

“All that staring, like a cow. All that trying to flirt with me when it’s obvious that Tormund’s just doing it for his own private amusement. He reminds me of Hyle, but I know what to look out for now when someone does that. He’s such an idiot.” She sips her tonic water, the quinine sharpness refreshing in her throat.

 

“Oh Gods.”

 

“What?”

 

“Bri!” Sansa’s wail could attract wolves from the surrounding twelve miles.

 

“What?” she repeats.

 

“Brienne, I love you. You know that, right?”

 

A nod, and she wonders where Sansa’s going with this.

 

“But you are such an idiot!”

 

“Pardon?” Politeness comes easily when accused of such crimes.

 

A vast shadow falls across them both, and they look up as one to see Clegane looking at Sansa with a curious expression on his ruined face. Sansa raises her eyebrows, and Sandor nods, sharply.

 

Couples are like this, she’s realised. The closer a partnership, the more silent the conversation. Brienne has been in a room with smug marrieds etc. before and has watched them all happily chatter away without moving their lips. Apart from Ramsay, who communicates with biting, but he’s not exactly normal, is he? The Tyrell-Baratheons (as they now are) utilise smirking. Others blush, or touch, or catch a look and understand.

 

“Right,” Sansa says.

 

“Yeah,” Clegane replies.

 

“We’re just going to get another drink. Do you want one?”

 

Brienne, mystified, shakes her head.

 

* * *

 

D-Day. Or at least T-Night.

 

She lies rigid and uncomfortable, thankfully fully clad in a t-shirt and soft jersey pyjama bottoms. They are the nicest thing Brienne has to wear at night, and she brought them because she thought of snuggling under the duvet in her single room and watching whatever soppy film happened to be on television at the time. They have built a protective barrier of pillows along the entire length of the bed, dividing it neatly into Brienne’s half and Tormund’s half.

 

He isn’t wearing a top. Thankfully, he did bring sleeping bottoms, which are as offensively plaid as the red shirt he always wears.

 

“Stop watching me,” she snaps. Brienne stares at the ceiling, but is more than aware of those blue-green eyes - and they are like the eyes of a kitten, which is idiotic in Tormund’s fuzzy-cheeked...possibly not that ridiculous, actually, but he is more of a bear than a cat - boring into the side of her head.

 

A hand breaches the protective pillow barrier - the PPB - and rests upon the apex.

 

She ignores it, pointedly.

 

Another grabs at the pillows, and Tormund shifts. He’s solid, and slightly soft around the hips in a pleasing but not to Brienne, not at all, way.

 

Hells. There are times when she regrets her not drinking platform and wants to dive head first into a microbrewery lager.

 

She hates that she finds him attractive. Not like Jaime, who is unfairly beautiful, or Gendry who is fifteen stone of solid muscle and boyishly confident charm, or Oberyn who everyone agrees is hotter than the sun. It’s perfectly reasonable to find those three men handsome. But Tormund is different; he’s hairy, and boorish, and has no table manners. He drinks and filters beer through his moustache. Inappropriate is his middle name. He’s cocky, and grins too much. His hair is a mess. He is a hipster, for the love of the Seven. Yet Tormund is, well, interesting. He’s disgustingly confident, and a really bloody good rugby player. He loves weapons, and history, and the ancient sagas of the Wars of the Five Kings. What he doesn’t know about Beyond the Wall can be written on the back of a postcard. He’s passionate, and friendly, and rather like some sort of enormous bouncy dog who dribbles too much and covers everything in cheerful muddy pawprints. He’s funny-

 

He shifts onto his knees, peeping over the pillows at her.

 

“What are you doing, Giantsbane?” Still resolutely staring at the ceiling, Brienne can’t ignore his behaviour.

 

He wiggles himself in the way of a cat about to pounce on a particularly favoured toy, before bodily launching himself onto the PPB.

 

“What are you-?”

 

“Climbing the Wall, like a good Wildling!”

 

Brienne stares at him, finally.

 

“Why are you doing that?”

 

“Because you’re on the other side.”

 

“Tormund, we’ve been thro-”

 

“No,” he says, quite firmly. “Ye’ve said what you wanted to say. Now it’s my turn to say. Listen to me, lass, and shut your mouth ‘til I finish for once!”

 

The urge to snip back rises, but Brienne pushes it back, crosses her arms, nods. Whatever he wants to say, it’s best he says it, and then they can just go to sleep and-

 

“Brienne, you’ve no clue, have you? Whatsoever? About what a fine woman that you are?”

 

He’s trying it on again. Marvellous. She is, however, too polite to interrupt his no-doubted drivelling speech.

 

“You are! You’re tall, and strong, and brave. Mighty, in a way. Kind. Intelligent. Magnificent. I’ve never seen anyone like you, but I dreamed of someone like you since when I was a wee lad. I always said that I’d want a woman who could look me in the eye, punch me in the face, give as good as I did to everythin.’ Someone robust enough for a big ginger bugger like me! Passionate you are, woman. Good. Resourceful,” and he pauses, expression curiously naked, voice husky. “Beautiful. You’re so beautiful, and you don’t even know it. Gods, you drive me mad. I’m shit at flirting. I’ve been trying to get you to notice me for, what, months and months? Years? And you think I’m playing some sort of game? I’m no like that, Brienne! Simple man, me, with simple thoughts. Us Free Folk never do anything like that. I’d never hurt you. I’d just be proud to have you by my side. If you’d have me.”

 

She watches him evenly, her pulse galloping in her throat at his speech.  

 

Oh.

 

Tormund is, according to the others, a decent bloke, a solid mate, a good man. He has the brotherly devotion of the notoriously finicky and brother-hating Sandor who is the most loyal of anyone to those who deserve it, the close friendship of Beric who is possibly one of the best people she knows. Hyle? His associates reflected the man himself; affable and charming on top, but slimy and awful underneath. Sluglike. Everyone likes Tor. Apart from Ramsay, but that’s generally a good thing. If Bolton likes someone, there’s usually something rather wrong (and that does include Beric, but considering he exists in a state of almost permanent concussion some leeway has to be given).

 

Fingers touch her wrist. They’re calloused, and rough, and so very careful.

 

“We can take it slow, and all, if you want. Aye, I’d love to make love to you right now. You looked impressive today, but when you’re covered in mud, being yourself - that’s when I like you best. When you’re Brienne, with them little rugby shorts on, all soaking wet and blue from cold, yelling at us on the pitch. All that fire and passion in your veins, like a true Wildling lass. But Sandor said-”

 

In a moment Brienne curls in on herself, stomach twisting.

 

“What did Clegane say?”

 

“Nothing much,” he adds, hurriedly. “Just that someone was a bastard to you, didn’t show you the respect that someone like you deserves. Me and him said we’d break his face, and Beric’s going to join in.”

 

“I am perfectly capable of-”

 

“Let me, woman.” The fingers press a little more heavily, paddling. “Not because I don’t think you can break someone’s nose with a punch, because you’ve got the most amazin’ musculature in your upper arms, but because you’re my friend, and I fancy you, and I want to court you by smashing someone’s face in as a present.”

 

Despite herself, she finds herself smiling, covering her mouth with her hand.

 

“We could work out together? I’m gettin’ a bit soft around the belly. You’re so fit-”

 

“You’re fine, Tormund. The weight helps in the scrum.”

 

That blue-y gaze finds hers, and to Brienne’s complete shock he looks almost bashful.

 

“Look. D’you want to go and watch the rugby with me? Storm’s End are playing Winterfell and it’ll be good. Blackfish’s done really well this season.”

 

“It’s the training regime. I’m wondering about copying it for us, see how King’s does with a little more discipline. Obviously I’ll have to run it past the rest of the team, but perhaps if we have everyone doing strength and cardio, maybe getting someone in who can advise us? I’m sure one of the sports scientists at the university cou-”

 

Tormund doesn’t kiss her, but he shifts closer, the bed dipping as he whisks away pillows and throws them across the room towards the wardrobe. He doesn’t kiss her, but his hand brushes along her jawline, and the light in his eyes seems to brighten as Brienne’s chest hitches, just a little.

 

“Come to the rugby with me, Brienne?”

 

“As a friend, or a date,” she murmurs, warmth twisting in her stomach.

 

“Both.”

 

His beard tickles her neck as Tormund settles, sharing her pillow, their bodies barely touching. He smells of beer, and an earthy musky cologne.

 

It’s...comforting.

 

* * *

 

Sansa glances at her mobile phone.

 

“Put it down an’ come to bed,” Sandor slurs. He’s quite drunk, since being around Beric and Tormund encourages his beer-loving side. He also drinks to stop himself trying to murder Bolton, which is perfectly understandable.

 

“Do you think she’s okay?”

 

“Yeah. Fuckin’ fine. Come ‘ere, little bird.”

 

“I hope it worked out.” She frets gently, hand across her stomach.

 

“Just hope she never finds out that there was no fourth room.” Sandor ends up scooping her into his arms, kissing her sloppily on the nose, laying her down in the bed as if she’s the most precious thing in his world. For all his angry heavy metal grumpiness, and shouty music tastes, and general curmudgeonly behaviour, Sandor is just so sweet to her.

 

“Do you think I should text?”

 

“No,” he rasps, voice so low it makes her toes curl. “I wanna make you come. Don’t wanna think of fuckin’ Tor when I’m doin’ it.”

 

Strong hands find her thighs - Sandor is a little worried their enthusiastic lovemaking and his, uh, prodigious size might harm his pup - and she closes her eyes as his impressive tongue swirls into action.

 

* * *

 

When she wakes, Tormund isn’t there.

 

For a shocked, panicking moment she wonders if he’s done a ‘Hyle Hunt’ - there’s a reason that that man’s name is perfect rhyming slang for female genitalia - before telling herself off firmly. They didn’t have sex. They didn’t even kiss. They just lay there, somewhat touching, and talked about rugby, and then swords, until Brienne basically passed out with exhaustion somewhere around 5am.

 

If it all goes back to how it was, with the bickering, then she hasn’t embarrassed herself. Yes. All fine. All good. All-

 

Yawning, wet from the shower and with a rather small towel carelessly wrapped around his pleasingly cuddly lower half, Tormund wanders back into the bedroom. He has another towel wrapped like a turban around his hair, and he’s obviously gone quite mad with the various purloined bath products as he smells, confusingly, of jasmine and ylang ylang.

 

He...is attractive.

 

Brienne sighs.

 

Tormund catches her looking, grins.

 

Really quite attractive.

 

“Fine,” she says. “Fine.”

 

“Fine?”

 

“I will go to the rugby with you.”

 

He catches her hand in his, nuzzles into Brienne’s scuffed and calloused palm, and the fierce joy that blazes across Tormund’s peculiarly expressive face is nothing like she’s ever seen before.

 

“I will even buy you a pie,” he says, semi-serious, his eyebrows dancing. “With peas. And a beer!”

 

It shouldn’t be sweet, and cute, and almost adorable. It shouldn’t. But, for a microsecond, a wonderful and giddying microsecond, it’s almost as if Brienne’s living in her own romantic comedy.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts are open. Come poke and request at [AsbestosMouth.](http://asbestosmouth.tumblr.com/)


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